


The Phantom's Journal

by inlaterdays



Category: Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera & Related Fandoms, Phantom of the Opera (2004)
Genre: Drama, F/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-02
Updated: 2014-11-02
Packaged: 2018-02-23 20:50:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 5,197
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2555183
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inlaterdays/pseuds/inlaterdays
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Phantom ponders his relationship with Christine. Covers the time period from his first sight of her as a child to the time of their first meeting in person. Originally posted to FFN.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Da Capo

There is an old legend I once heard, one of the few things I care to recall from my childhood, about nightingales in human form.

Every century, a pair is born: one male and one female. Only two in all the world. They sing like angels and give much pleasure to others, but are doomed to wander the world with no mate unless they find each other. And what chance can there be of that? Some creatures are meant to walk the earth alone.

And so, although their lives are filled with beauty of their own creation, they sing, and sorrow, and despair, and die. But for that one impossible chance of meeting.

I clung to that fable, although I have purposely forgotten anything else from that time. Music has always seemed the one thing worth living for; the one light in the endless darkness of my existence. I wanted to meet this female nightingale, wherever she might be.

The first time I saw her, I had not the fable in mind. She was a tiny thing when Antoinette brought her to the Opera House – pale and scrawny; all eyes and hair. She was silent and stoic during the days, but cried during the nights. I watched her. The sorrows of others had never moved me, but hers did. Here was another small thing, abandoned by fate and left with no family, as I had been. And she, like I, had been drawn into the world of the Paris Opera House.

I didn't like to see her cry. I began to sing to her at night so that she would not. I never let her see me. I never let anyone see me save the one person who knew I was there, and that was rarely.

She liked my voice, this tiny one. She talked to me. She called me "angel". It was very strange. No one had ever called me a name that meant anything good.

I was careless with her, at first. She interested me, but she was just one of a number of things that held my interest. I would get to exploring tunnels, or building something; teaching myself more about music, or watching the stables; all in secret, and forget about the ballet school for days at a time.

The first time this happened, I was gone from her for a week. When I thought of her again and went to look at her, she was sorrowful. She asked what she had done wrong to make me abandon her.

I was dumbstruck. I don't think I had felt remorse at all in those days about anything until she came. She wasn't just a toy to play with; she was a creature something like myself. She was aware of me, and when I was gone, she noticed.

She actually missed me.

I had the power to hurt something…but the desire not to.

This was new.

Even Antoinette didn't pay close attention to me. She was busy with her own life, as was I with what served for mine. Antoinette was aware of my presence, but largely unconcerned. Every few weeks I would make some sign that I still existed, and she accepted this. We spoke rarely, and only when there was some reason to.

But I paid close attention to Christine after that. I learned her name. I remembered. In those days, I was the one with a thousand things to do, while she had only her dancing and me to think about. I mattered to her; at least my singing did, and that was enough. She told no one about me, probably fearing laughter from the other ballet girls if she spoke of visits from an angel.

I continued to watch her. She must have been no more than seven. I was thirteen years her senior, a vast chasm at that age. I felt I could have been her father. I wanted to be her father. I wanted something to belong to me; another living thing. I wanted to keep her as a pet, and I wanted to be her family.

I still had not heard her sing. That would not happen for years. As far as I knew, she had no voice – she simply liked mine.

We didn't talk much; I had no experience of conversation. I sang, and she listened. I sang to prevent her from crying, for the purely selfish reason that it pleased me; that I could do so, and that she let me.

And so it began.


	2. A Cappella

There were ghost stories told about the Opera House long before I took up residence there. By listening to the chorus girls gossip, I learned that there were few buildings in the world housing any sort of theater arts which didn't have rumors and legends attached to them. Theater folk are a superstitious lot.

In the very beginning, I had not thought of playing spectre - nor had I thought about wearing a mask. I was sick of masks. Living in darkness and in secret gave me the freedom to go barefaced for the first time – what a delicious sensation! Was this how other people felt always? At times, I nearly forgot about my deformity. There was no reason to be around people, and I had no desire for their company.

As everything does, that changed.

In my late teens, I began to watch the chorus girls with their lovers, and I began to be curious about what it would be like to experience such embraces. I became obsessed with mirrors, as if by studying the rest of my body I could find some explanation for the ruined horror that was my face. As far as I could tell, I was made in much the same way as any other man, and perhaps better than some – with the sole exception of my face. Why was this so all-important? The dancers barely looked at their paramours during most of their interactions.

I decided to experiment. My first mask was flesh-toned, and clumsily made. I picked out one of the ballet girls more or less at random, and allowed her to catch sight of me in a darkened corridor.

Of course she screamed and ran, damn her. Of course she did. Foolish of me to entertain the notion, even for a second, that anyone might see me as anything other than a monster and a freak.

I punished the ballet girl for her stupidity. I cut partway through the ties on her slippers. The ribbons snapped when she was en pointe and she fell.

Antoinette had something to say about that.

"Erik!" she said to the empty air in her apartments, knowing I'd hear, eventually.

"Madame Giry."

"That girl could have broken her ankle. As it is, it's a bad sprain. It may be months – a year – before she can dance again!"

"I see."

"Don't you care?"

"Should I?"

"You should, since you're responsible."

"Am I? And who blames me, since no one knows I'm here?"

"People are blaming the Opera Ghost."

"People blame the Opera Ghost for everything. People blame the Opera Ghost when a horse sneezes."

"This was no sneeze. Those slipper ribbons were cut."

I was silent.

"You've got to stop the pranks and cruelties," she said.

"Am I cruel, Antoinette?"

"You can be. You don't seem to know or care whether you are or not. It's going to get you into trouble some day."

I was beginning to find the conversation both tedious and distasteful.

"Thank you for your words of wisdom. I shall take them under advisement," I said, dryly.

I could hear her continuing to address me, but I was gone. I did not care for lectures.

She thought I was cold and careless, Madame Giry. I took pains to appear so to her. What no one saw, what no one knew, was that deep in the bowels of the Opera House, far down in the darkness, I often wept in solitude. As Christine would, later, I hid my tears. No one cared for them. I had learned the hard way that any show of weakness on my part was to be exploited and turned back against me. Far better and safer to appear uncaring.

If I was cruel, what was it that others were to me? I had been beaten, tortured, starved, burned – a thousand things I'd not care to name. It was not wrong for others to cause me pain, but it was wrong for me to cause pain to others? I did not understand this. I had no sense of proportion, nor any sense of actions having consequences. Where was I to have learned them from?

My next mask was dead white, the color of a bleached skull. I began to dress in black, to make the contrast starker. If people wanted me to be their Opera Ghost, I'd fill the role. I began to realize that others feared me, and I began to relish the thought. I'd feared other people; let it be their turn. Their fear gave me power, and I began to wield it.

I began to build my world.


	3. Cantabile

By the time Christine arrived at the Opera House, I had already stepped into the role of Phantom and wore it comfortably. Despite many shakes of the head, cluckings of the tongue, and mon Dieus from Madame Giry, I think she rather enjoyed the act at times. It was her idea to ask Lefevre for a salary for the Opera Ghost.

"After all, you can't live on air," she said.

Christine had no idea that her Angel of Music and the fearsome Opera Ghost were the same creature, and that creature a man, until many years later. I took pains that she would not make the connection. She was the one being I did not wish to fear me. She was mine to look after; to comfort and soothe. Instead, she connected me with the spirit of her father. This touched me. I liked it. I took no pains to disabuse her of the notion.

And so, eight years passed. Opera people came and went, Christine grew, and the Phantom became ever more feared and powerful. I had built a small, secret empire of which I was the sole ruler. I knew the wheres and hows and wherefores of everything. I knew the Opera House better than anyone. I had familiar routines; I felt well-shielded.

Then the rug was pulled out from beneath me.

I was passing down a hidden corridor behind the ballet dormitories, when I heard a voice that stopped me in my tracks. A clear, light, soprano, singing a common folksong:

_Helas! Je sais un chant d'amour  
Triste et gai tour a tour…_

It was the purest, most bell-like sound I'd ever heard. A completely untrained voice, but what perfect pitch! What a clear tone!

I had to see who was making such a heavenly sound. I knew well how to see without being seen.

…It was Christine! My Christine! My heart was beating too fast for speech. All these years I'd been singing to her, never dreaming that she herself possessed such a magnificent instrument. What could I not do with such a voice? What heights might not we achieve?

Later that day, I spoke to her when she was alone in the chapel.

"Christine…" I sang her name, softly, the way I always did.

"Angel?" she was used to me now.

"I heard you this afternoon." I was speaking now, instead of singing, which was rare for us.

"You did?" she smiled. "When?"

"When you were singing."

"Oh…" she said, clearly not knowing what to make of this. She really had no idea of her talent.

"How would you like to learn to sing? To sing properly, the way a diva does?"

She looked doubtful. "I'm a dancer, not an opera singer…"

"Your voice is lovely. It would be more lovely still if it were trained."

She considered this, chewing on her lip. "I'll have to ask Madame Giry."

"Why don't you do that?" I'd have a word with Antoinette, myself.

The lessons added greatly to our happiness, Christine's and mine. She was an apt and eager pupil, and when we sang together, my heart was full. Her technique progressed at an amazing rate: the way she learned taught me things, which we used together to build her voice. And so we shaped each other, my Christine and I.

Even Antoinette was impressed.

"You would have made a great teacher," she told me one day.

"Most singers are less than willing to take instruction from invisible masters," I said, acerbically. "Christine is a rarity."

"She is exceptional in many ways," Antoinette said.

As if _I_ didn't know that!

And then everything changed again.

Christine arrived one day for her lesson in costume for the latest production. She was tired and out of breath, but still eager to learn. The costume left little to the imagination. I didn't like it. I didn't like it at all. I didn't like the way I couldn't take my eyes off of her when she moved. I didn't like what I was thinking. Nothing about this was right.

"What is that thing you have on?" I asked harshly.

"The costume for – "

"It's bad. It's very bad. I've never seen anything worse. Today's lesson is cancelled," I said. I was really angry.

Tears sprang to her eyes. "What is wrong? What did I do? I'm sorry…"

But I heard no more. I was running, and I did not pause for thought until I had reached the other side of the lake.


	4. Dissonance

The gap in years between a child of seven and a young man of twenty is vast and insurmountable.

The same gap in years between a girl of sixteen and a young man of twenty-nine is significantly more narrow – especially when the current fashion in polite society is for young women to be married in their late teens…to men in their thirties.

It seemed to me that Christine had matured in the blink of an eye while I'd been standing still - and I hadn't noticed. Hadn't noticed, that is, until it was forcefully brought to my attention by that costume. I wished I'd never laid eyes on it; I wished I'd never seen her in it. And yet I was unable to erase the image from my mind. When had she become so beautiful?

God. I couldn't bear the thoughts that went through my head. Why couldn't she have remained a child? I had been happy while I was able to play the father. But now –

I didn't know what to do with her as a young woman. I knew what young women did when they saw me, and I couldn't bear the thought of that from her, above all others. I could dream that Christine-the-girl might accept me as her protector, that I could have a part in her life, but Christine-the-young-woman? Suddenly I had begun to want things I knew I could not have and should never have dreamed of wanting, and just as suddenly, she was completely beyond my grasp.

"Christine…"

It was a plea for forgiveness and understanding, begged from the empty air.

My mind and my body had turned traitor. I refused to leave my self-imposed exile. I knew that Antoinette was trying to have a word with me; I knew that I had been unfair to Christine. But I couldn't face them.

Eventually, Antoinette came to me – at least, as far as she would go. She knew that I could hear her from where she stood.

"Erik." Pause. "Erik! This can't continue." Another pause. Then: "Are you all right? Christine seems to think that you are mortally offended with her in some way, but if you're ill…"

I was ill. I was sick to my soul, but I could hardly tell her that.

I emerged far enough so that she could hear me, but could not see me.

"I'm here. I'm not ill," I said.

She let her breath out sharply. "Then what is all this about? If this is one of your tricks – "

"It's no trick," I said.

She sighed.

"Well. I know you don't want to hear this, but what you've started with Christine – you have a responsibility."

I was still silent, but now with annoyance. That she – that anyone – should presume to discuss with me my responsibility to Christine was laughable.

She continued. "The work you two have done – her voice has really blossomed. She could be a great talent. I know you see it. You were the first to see it. Masters do not just abandon their pupils, especially not pupils as gifted as this one."

So she could see it too. Any praise of Christine felt like praise directed at me, and I unbent a bit.

"She is very gifted," I allowed.

"If you find you are unable to continue with her lessons, you need to let her know. I doubt sincerely whether she could find a teacher anywhere who understood her voice as well as you do, but if she wishes to continue her training…"

I made an indignant noise. The idea of replacing me was not to be borne.

"Tell her the lessons will continue," I said.

"Very good." Madame Giry sounded satisfied. "And Erik – girls do grow up," she added, cryptically.

She left. I kicked at a wall. I felt like breaking things, beginning with my own head. But this would not do. Christine needed me.

And I needed her, more than I'd known. It would take me some time to come to terms with this.

We recommenced our lessons on the following day. To my vast relief, Christine was clothed in a plain, modest day dress when she arrived. Her hands were clasped, her eyes downcast. She began to renew her apologies when she heard my voice, but I cut her off.

"If I am to continue as your teacher," I said, "I must ask that you abide by my rules. I have been remiss in not informing you of them before.

"The garment you appeared in when last we met may be acceptable for the stage, but it is not appropriate for private lessons. When you come here, you should be properly dressed."

"I will not offend you again," she said.

I had thought this next part out thoroughly. I was going to be unfair for the sake of my own peace of mind.

"And Christine – you must make certain that no distractions come between you and your music. Your gift needs to be nurtured."

"Distractions?"

"Admirers such as several other of the ballet girls have. Such frivolities are not for you. You should be protected and guarded as a treasure."

Though she did not look entirely displeased at the notion of being so carefully looked after, she did look surprised. She raised her head.

"You are very strict," she observed, mildly.


	5. Duet

"Plus ca change, plus c'est la meme chose," the saying goes. The more things change, the more they stay the same.

I've never found that to be true. There are times when things seem to change as rapidly as if they are hurtling downhill; there are defining moments that mark the start of enormous transitions in one's life.

Once Christine had resumed her lessons with me, we remained on an even footing, but things were never exactly the same between us. To my surprise, she began to be even more aware of me than she had been previously. She'd always known I was there and had accepted it, but she now exhibited a curiosity about me that has not been present before. She made enquiries of Madame Giry, who delicately shrugged them aside.

And about a year after the costume incident, she began to have a curious reaction to the sound of my voice.

I was demonstrating a technique I wanted her to try by performing an extended solo. When I finished, I noticed that her eyes were closed, her head titled, her mouth slightly open. She looked as though she were in some sort of trance.

"Christine…?" I asked.

"Oh…" she came to herself and opened her eyes.

"What's the matter?" I asked, gently. "Are you listening?"

Suddenly she seemed to realize where she was. A flush crept into her cheeks.

"Oh! I'm…so sorry. I seem to be a trifle indisposed…Dear Maestro, would it be all right if I excused myself early? I need…"

She didn't finish. She was now bright crimson. I excused her, and she fled the room, nearly knocking down Madame Giry, who was outside the door.

This happened a few more times to Christine alone before I felt the strange alchemy, too.

We were singing a duet – a love song. Our voices had always blended well, but this time, an indescribable rapture crept over both of us. It was as if the heavens had opened and allowed us to sing as angels. Every glissando, every tremolo, was a real and tactile thing. My voice slid around hers, supporting, upholding; hers soared to heights of pure tonal ecstasy but then dipped easily and caressed my own. Time seemed to hold still. She anticipated my every move, and I hers. It was as if our souls had become entwined. We had become one being, through the music.

It was magic.

Neither of us wanted it to end. When it did, I stood in stunned silence in my darkness, staring at her.

She was in her trancelike pose, and only gradually opened her eyes. Her breathing was now shallow and rapid.

"Maestro…"

"Yes. I know."

There were no words for such an experience. We remained silent for awhile, wondering, and then she left without saying a word.

I had to think about this. I hardly dared think about this. I hardly dared breathe.

Falling in love with Christine is something I can't even remember doing. My feeling for her is so much a part of me that it seems to have been there always, a secret treasure stored in my heart, to be revealed gradually and expressed differently, but built into the very fiber of my being.

For the first time, I dared to entertain the notion that she might feel something in return.

Hope can be a cruel thing. It delights us with visions of paradise in one moment, only to torment us with the realization that such bliss may never be attained in the next.

What had just happened? Something had just happened. There seemed to be no name for it, but it hung there in my thoughts, a shimmering thing of impossible beauty that we had created together, and which was now part of both of us, binding us in some strange fashion, more closely than we had been bound before.

When I recovered my senses a bit, I tried to reason with myself. It was a fluke, some sort of miracle allowed to us for just this one time.

But then the miracle happened again. And again. Rarely; not during every lesson; not even every time we sang together, but too often to be dismissed.

Christine began begging to see me. She began asking questions even more frequently, though gently, as was her way, of me, and of Madame Giry. She seemed to make no firm connections regarding her Angel of Music, the Phantom, and her Maestro – now she doubted, now she believed, now she didn't know what to think – but she clearly wondered. I knew that someday, if our association continued, she was going to have to know the truth…about everything.

And I realized something else – something that filled my heart with joy and fear, and with that beautiful tormenter, hope.

I thought for the first time in years of the fable that had comforted me in childhood. I believed in my human nightingales the way Christine believed in her Angel of Music – it was true in my heart, even if other people would not have understood.

I had found my nightingale. My Christine. And I began to hope against all hope, against every rational possibility, that it was I who was destined to be her mate.

I made changes to the place on the secret underground lake. I dressed as a gentleman always, but I made some improvements to my toilette, all the same. I built a kingdom for her – a place where she and music would reign together: a physical expression of the places each held in my heart.

And I began making preparations to let her see me. I was afraid, but it was inevitable.


	6. Cadenza

Christine was ready. Her voice was at its peak. Antoinette and I began discussing how to go about bringing her abilities to the attention of the public.

During one of these discussions, we were face to face, for once. I was feeling oddly secure and perhaps complacent at the time, and had become a bit more careless about letting myself be seen.

Antoinette, I think, noticed that I had been taking trouble with my appearance. I caught her looking at me with a glint of amused speculation in her eye.

"What?" I asked, but she shook her head, smiled, and waved the question away. I was annoyed. Surely I had the right to dress as I pleased.

The ballet girls were a bit different, as well. When they caught sight of me, they still ran, but I began to catch the words, "dark," "mysterious," and "tragic," in their conversations about the Opera Ghost more often than I heard "horrible" or "fearsome". Who can account for the nature of gossip?

That idiot Buquet soon put a stop to such talk, anyway. He loved to try to make himself important by spinning tales to the girls that made me out to be even more grotesque than I actually was.

Of course, he also told them that I had the ability to remove my head, set it on fire, and throw it at people, so I took his remarks for what they were worth. I daresay some of the girls actually believed him.

The reigning diva in those days was, to put it bluntly, a piece of work. I had begun to take especial delight in inflicting small indignities and torments upon her – all of them richly deserved. Besides, she exploded so satisfactorily. She was highly unpopular with most of her fellow cast members and the Opera House staff, yet highly popular with the theatre-going public.

It was a commonplace at the time that society people attended the opera to see and be seen rather to listen to the music; and indeed, the popularity enjoyed by La Carlotta is difficult to explain in any other way.

She certainly got on poor Lefevre's nerves, so much so that she drove him into retirement, and so the Opera House changed hands.

I didn't like change, and I hated the new managers. They had been in trade; this venture was, for them, a clear bid for an increase in social standing. They cared nothing for music, but only for ticket sales, receipts, and crowned heads: I had heard some of their discussions and negotiations with Lefevre. They also had no respect at all for theatre traditions, and that included the Opera Ghost. Me.

Nevertheless, I had decided to be polite. I was prepared with a note from O.G. on the day when the change was to be announced, welcoming them and explaining their responsibilities. The day turned out to be more eventful than anyone had planned.

Carlotta was in one of her perennial moods, Buquet had deserted his post (again), and Madame Giry and I seized the opportunity that presented itself.

Christine won everyone over with her singing, as I had known she would. Who else could deal so beautifully with being unexpectedly plucked from the chorus and thrust into the limelight? She was rare indeed.

Not that she wasn't nervous. It would have been strange had she not been.

On the night of the gala, Christine had been given La Carlottas's dressing room. Before the performance, she asked for a little time alone in which to compose herself.

She addressed me: "Maestro – Angel – I don't know whether you are listening right now. I don't' know whether you will be there to watch me tonight. I hope you will.

"But I want you to know that everything I am, I owe to you. Tonight, though I sing in front of a crowd, I sing for you and you alone." She bowed her head.

I was overcome. I could think of only one thing to say in return.

"Tonight, after the performance, you shall meet me, if you wish."

Her face flushed excitedly. "Tonight?"

"Tonight."

Of course Christine performed magnificently, charming everyone. All of Paris fell in love with her that night. And she had told me that she was singing for me.

…But I, her teacher, who should have been by her side, sharing her triumph; who should have been in heaven – was, instead, in the basement.

I decided that I hated this new patron, too. He had taken my box, when he could easily have seated himself with the managers. Or anywhere. He would have been welcome to the basement. Anywhere but my box.

And then his behavior after the performance! Though she was clearly happy to see a childhood friend, I heard Christine tell him "No," at least three times as he pressed his supper invitation. The boy refused to listen. I don't believe that Christine had any idea of the implications of an invitation to supper alone, yet she refused him all the same.

I locked the door, not to keep her in, but to keep him out. He didn't seem as if he was going to take "No" for an answer – and an arrogant puppy with a title is still an arrogant puppy.

The time had come. I was trembling. I had to appear calm. I had decided to wear gloves, because I was unused to the touch of another human being, and Christine and I were so aware of each other that the idea of touching her bare flesh – even just her dainty hand – with my hand ungloved seemed like far too great a liberty.

I sang to her. I had not meant to mention the boy, but my anger got the better of me. Christine was contrite.

I beckoned to her. The mirror opened. We were breathing the same air, in the same space. The look on her face when she saw me was everything I could have hoped for, and more. I could tell from her expression that she was undergoing a pleased yet confused reassessment of her relationship with me, the way I had two years prior, Christine was much more adaptable and quick to accept and incorporate change than I.

I saw the whiteness of my mask reflected in the deep brown pools of her eyes, an expression of awe on her face.

She took my hand for the first time. But my heart had always been in her keeping.


End file.
